


Titan War

by sanguineOcelot



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguineOcelot/pseuds/sanguineOcelot
Summary: The battlefields of the Imperium are often seen up-close, through the eyes of Adeptus Astartes and Imperial Guardsmen. But there's an entirely different scale that is so often overlooked.
Relationships: Princeps/Titan, Titan/Explosions
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

***AWAKEN.***

The voice is vast. Deep. Impossible. It echoes through my soul. It is everywhere. It is everything. It is The Herald of Dawn. It is me. And I find my eyes opening, despite my exhaustion.

***AWAKEN, MY PRINCEPS. WE ARE NEEDED.***

I squint at the chronometer on the wall. Somehow, I've actually gotten plenty of sleep. How in the hell could that have happened? Even as I wonder, sirens go off. Blaring, screaming, with strobing lights and whooping horns. If I had still been asleep, I would have found that a far less pleasant way to wake up. I give mental thanks to my companion, the last relationship I'll ever have, as I begin to get off my bed.

"Princeps, an urgent call has come in! The Legio walks, on the world of Havensar-4!"

The planet's name is nothing to me, meaningless, but the voice is Vris, my Primus Moderati. Martian-born, raised in the priesthood of the Cult Mechanicus, enjoying the greatest honor of her life as part of a Titan crew, and continually frustrated by my lack of reverence for the machine-spirits. I allow her such informal address because she's good at her job. If I were to follow proper protocol, she'd be executed for her insubordinate attitude. If I were to follow proper protocol, I'd be dead instead of a Titan Princeps. 

Not every mind is cut out to command such a machine. Younger Princeps, eager and brash and excitable, often command Warhound walkers, small and agile Scout Titans with enough firepower to level several habitation blocks with a single volley. At 15-20 meters, they loom over the battles of lesser warriors, but are still akin to children playing at the feet of true Titans. Reavers are next, sturdier and better armed, though still less shielded than ideal for their 25-30 meter heights. These are for Warhound commanders who have tempered their aggression, and now hone their finer control over multiple systems. Above the Reavers are Warlord Titans, standing 35-40 meters, walking fortresses filled with Skitarii warriors and defensive guns. But even they pale before the Emperor Titans.

Standing over fifty meters high, an Emperor-class Titan is more a mobile weapons platform than anything else. A fortress. A garrison. A mobile command point. An artillery battery. A Titan-killer. The Herald of Dawn has walked the dust of a thousand worlds, her kill tallies stretching back before the Heresy. She's slain Tyrannids, Chaos Titans, Necron war machines, Tau walkers, and even an Eldar starship that foolishly tried to engage ground forces. A Quake Cannon isn't made for engaging low-orbit craft, but it was too perfect a target to pass up. She has a legacy stretching back nearly fifteen thousand years. It's hard to not be impressed.

I enter the hangar, already feeling the ship lurching into life around me. I'm told the journey will only be a week, and that should be just enough time to prepare Dawn for battle. But I'm not interested in that. The Moderatii know what they're doing. The lobotomized servitors are already moving cables and barrels, loading ammunition, securing braces, while the tech-priests scurry around, chanting and glaring at me. None of that matters. I palm the door open, entering the very lowest port in Dawn's left foot. I'm told that it is 'unseemly' for a Princeps to navigate his Titan by foot. I simply reply that Dawn isn't mine, and I'm showing her due respect by ascending her manually.

It takes more than forty minutes before I'm on the command deck. The enginarium, control stations, tight hallways and expansive cathedrals built into Dawn are each a single facet of her beauty, and I indulge my awe as I pass through her entirety. But now is what's needed. I can feel her annoyance, the clattering and crawling of tiny forms across her magnificent body, and while she enjoys being lavished with praise, I know what comes next. I seat myself in the Princeps Command Throne, automated systems linking to my implants and connecting my mind to hers. 

***WELCOME BACK.***

There are no words for the union. Unconditional love, a trust as deep as the ocean and enduring as Time itself. Searing agony, my every nerve exposed to the fury of a star. Violent, sucking emptiness, the vacuum of space itself trying its damnedest to suck my body inside-out. Ecstasy beyond the limits of human understanding. Nothing I've ever experienced comes close. No food, sex, or victory could ever compare to the perfect unity of joining my mind to Dawn's. She is unlike any other Titan I've ever seen or commanded, and to say aloud the reason why would be the highest of blasphemies to the Cult Mechanicus. But I know it in my heart, and so does she. 

You see, The Herald of Dawn has felt the touch of the Emperor.

Ten thousand years ago and more, the Emperor walked the galaxy wrapped in the flesh of a man, before ascending to the Golden Throne to watch over His beloved Imperium. The Mechanicus are odd, and their worship of machines coincides - in a way - with worship of the Emperor. But they've never convinced me that their clockwork Emperor is the real one. They can pray to the Omnissiah all they like, but when I devote myself, it's the Emperor's light I kneel before. This is why Dawn has accepted me so readily. She knows the Emperor's glory firsthand. She shows me, as she does every time. As if I could ever forget.

In the time before the Heresy, Dawn walked the plains of an alien world. Its cities burned beneath her guns. Their puny cannons scratched her hull in retaliation, their cowardly ambushes damaging her ankle joint. She still stood tall, but there was a limp to her tread. She stopped before the descending craft, and the figure that stepped out was nothing short of perfection. He raised one hand to Dawn's metal flesh, and she knew He could feel her pain. "Machine," He commanded, "Be healed." And so it was. The metal flowed like water, cables reforming their connections, the light of the Emperor binding Dawn's wounds and making her whole once more.

Through the waves of divine bliss wracking my body, I can distantly hear her drives warming up. Fusion generators, eight of them working as one, the largest power source in all of the Legio Adamantus. They still burn with the spark of the divine, the Emperor's light living on in Dawn's majestic, radioactive hearts. The Skitarii loading her missile racks fall to their knees in worship. The Moderatii overseeing her Vulkan Mega-Bolter chant prayers and hymns of devotion. But it's not their praise that Dawn enjoys. Off in the distance of space, beyond the reach of any telescope, sits Holy Terra, where the Emperor sits on His great Golden Throne, overseeing the survival of the Imperium. And Dawn can feel His light, His presence, through the lingering spark of His light that she carries. She purrs happily, her entire metal form trembling, and the prayers falter. They worry that they have displeased her. But they are far beneath her notice, for now - and mine.

I wake from my trance some two hours later. Vris is on the deck, checking readings. She understands my need to commune with Dawn. We each have a role to play, after all, and as the readings begin to drop to their dormant state, she turns and gives me the laced-finger symbol of the cog, the Omnissiah's blessing. "Blessings of the Omnissiah, Princeps, for he smiles upon us today. The Herald of Dawn shows readings well above expected, and the repairs are almost finished." I smile as she begins reading out the list of damage that still needs to be fixed, but I'm only half-listening. Dawn would go into battle with no arms and only half a leg if it meant she could serve the Emperor. And, of course, I would be right there with her, life or death irrelevant in my service to the Master of Mankind. I interrupt her to ask what the upcoming battle will entail.

"Four regiments of Imperial Guard are dug in on an ice world, Princeps, and though the greenskins they face are many, they would be no true threat were it not for the forces of Chaos landing their troops on the other side of their horde. We'll be joined by forces from three separate Adeptus Astartes Chapters, though individual troop dispositions are unknown as yet." That's cause enough for alarm. Chaos - evil and undisciplined, cruel and vicious and blasphemous - using the orks as a screen to prevent Imperium forces from disrupting their landing? I'm so lost in the implications that I nearly miss the next part. "Early readings show that Legio Mortis is also deploying Titans, though the objectives are unclear. The only close hive-city is Lemmworth-4, a mining facility that grew into a full habitation area. The Imperial Guard are defending there, and to reach it, Chaos forces would have to cut through the orks - or simply wait for them to be expended against the Guard. I mark it a 97% likelihood that they will wait, to attempt to diminish both forces before they strike. Once we reach the system, we'll have at least four days before Ork forces are diminished enough that chaos can attack."

Dawn growls in the back of my mind, and below, the docking pylons for affixing weapons flex eagerly. "We'll be ready, Primus Vrius. Dawn is eager to crush Mortis' deemon machines. We'll put them out of their misery, and purify their souls with holy fire. Let me know when we're ten hours away from landing. I need to prepare myself." I disconnect from Dawn's mind, allowing her to drift into sleep - or whatever passes for a Titan's sleep. I have several rituals to undergo, to focus my mind and hone my reflexes, as well as dozens of data-slates to go over. The history of the planet, terrain, history and after-action reports on the Guard regiments we're working with, data regarding the Space Marines I'll doubtless be arguing with, information on enemy forces, analysis of the ork presence....there is so very much to do before Dawn and I set foot on this planet, but I didn't get where I am by being lazy.

***SOON, MY PRINCEPS.***

I place a hand on Dawn's metal skin as I begin my walk back down her corridors. "Soon, my love."


	2. Chapter 2

***I THIRST FOR THEIR DEATHS.***

The ship shakes around me. Irrelevant. Background noise. I'm easing myself back into Dawn's mind, immersing myself in her molten soul. The pain is irrelevant. I hear laughter, slightly crazed, in the grips of an endorphin rush unrivaled by anything in nature. It's me. It doesn't matter. Vris is worried. That doesn't matter, either. She knows her job, and I know mine. I feel Dawn as if her skin was my own. Her generators hum, a heartbeat deep beneath layers of adamantine plating and plasteel reinforcing beams. 

"One minute to drop!"

The restraints hold Dawn's limbs in place in the vaguely cylindrical, Titan-sized drop-pod. The data feeds scroll across my awareness. The Dark Angels have already engaged the foe, their small, fast vehicles untouched by the crude ork weapons. They either don't see the threat, or they don't care. The gargant, half the height of Dawn and made to destroy her lesser kin, tracks one of their bikes with its heavy, ponderous guns. Foolish. Wasteful. Idiotic. It fires, belching out a shell ten times the size of its target, and it misses anyways. The recoil from the gun, protruding from the ugly scrap-walker's stomach, sends it staggering back a step, and the impact kills more orks than the Angels have killed in their entire attack run so far. That's interesting, but only tangentially.

"Drop!"

The locking mechanisms disengage, and we begin our descent towards the planet's surface. Rockets burn along the bottom, keeping us from attaining a speed dangerous to Dawn. They don't matter. There is nothing I can do. Right now, my mind is engaged with the one thing that sets me so far above my fellow Princeps of Adamantus: Engagement. I have a rare gift for fighting other Titans, or similar-sized threats, an instinct that the Lords of Adamantus call a 'gift from the Omnissiah.' I watch the ork gargant, sizing it up for weaknesses, even as Dawn drops from the heavens, the Emperor's own fist to strike down the scrap-beast. 

"Thirty seconds to impact!"

It's time. I can see it. The haphazard construction of the piggish walker is obvious to me. Its knees are vulnerable, and a pair of skilled Warhounds could bring it down with careful precision. A Reaver could likely go toe-to-toe with the gargant and win, though it would be difficult. Fortunately, I am neither of these. I am the Herald of Dawn, a Nemesis-class Emperor Titan, and my weapons are orders of magnitude higher than theirs. I cycle up the first of my starboard armaments, mounted onto the carapace roughly where a shoulder would be. The Volcano Cannon emits a throaty purr, within the confines of the pod. I want it ready to fire the instant I land. Vris is shouting warnings, as if I need them. I know what I'm doing.

"Brace!"

The shuddering crash of the ablative landing pads is jarring, but expected. It doesn't bother me. The front of the pod falls away, and I'm already firing. My firing solutions are sound, even if it will take the others another second or two to realize it. The primary weapons capacitor howls, the focusing array of the immense laser weapon channeling the intensity of a sun. Dawn's Volcano Cannon is to a lascannon what the lascannon is to a flashlight, and when it discharges, the tiny motorcycles of the Astartes beneath me swerve away. The thunder of ionized air would shatter windows, if there were any. The beam lances into the gargant just beneath its porcine cockpit, piercing the containment modules and detonating its scavenged core. It detonates immediately, torn asunder by my aim and its own pathetic construction. Engine kill.

***ENGINE KILL!***

"Engine kill confirmed, Princeps! Four point two seconds from deployment to the first kill, that's a new record!"

As if records matter. As if gloating matters. I'm already flushing the Volcano Cannon with coolant, the searing heat burning my senses. Like a coal pressed to my shoulder, I feel Dawn's discomfort - and together, we ignore it. The Gatling Blaster, just above the left hip, is spinning up, acquiring targets for destruction. But these are beneath my notice. My Moderatii can determine which of those is the biggest threat. My sensors have picked up another walker, another Titan, approaching from beyond the ork lines. Sixteen miles, beyond the range of my auspex, but there's no missing it. Dawn's left arm raises, aligning perfectly, minute adjustments tracking the shape. Vris is afraid. Dawn can smell her fear. She worries that we have gone mad. Perhaps we have. There is no warning before the Quake Cannon discharges its unspeakable payload.

The shells fired by a Quake Cannon carry shards of a planet condemned to Exterminatus. Their flight through the air is announced by a shrieking wail, the last vestiges of the screams of those killed in the cataclysmic destruction that befell their world. When the shell strikes its target, it unleashes echoes of the world's death, and is often employed against fortified strongholds, heretic-ruled hive cities, or massive formations of enemies. This time, however, Dawn and I felt it would be fitting to deliver this instrument of death into the cockpit of the Chaos Titan in the distance. It takes nearly ten seconds for the shell to impact - far too late for them to change direction. I recognize the flare of void shields, meant to protect the enemy Titan from heavy fire. They fail.

***ENGINE KILL!***

Dawn's voice and mine speak as one, gleeful, excited, bloodthirsty. Vris is past the point of fear. There is no longer any hesitation, no longer any doubt. She will serve until she dies, and she has accepted this. I am familiar with the routine. Her fatalism is a coping mechanism. It is irrelevant. The Chaos Titans of Legio Mortis on the horizon are pulling back, consolidating. They have just watched the vengeance of the Emperor Himself lash out and slay one of their Warlords with a single blow. They will be cautious now. Perhaps I should be more cautious in the hunt, as well.

"Princeps, inbound communications from a Colonel Kasteen of the Valhallan 597th, they're requesting aid against the orks."

With a disgruntled growl, Dawn and I turn from the distant dots that we know are Mortis. They're well within range, should we wish to fire at them, but we have a duty. The hum of the rapid-firing Gatling Blaster at Dawn's left hip builds once more as we reacquire targets. The greenskin horde is disorganized, but forms large clumps, rallying around individual clan leaders or heavy vehicles. I let out a weary sigh. 

***WE HUNGER, PRINCEPS.***

I know, love, but right now we have a duty. Until these orks are dealt with, we won't have another chance to clash with Mortis. Dawn understands this. I feel her connect the threads, and realize that once she breaks the back of the ork horde, we'll be able to pursue our ancient, hated enemy. Our enemy? Her enemy? One and the same. The distinction is irrelevant. I am the Herald of Dawn. I am her Princeps. We are one. And it is with joy that we open fire, beginning the laborious task of shredding dozens of xenos filth with every shot. Bursts of shrapnel and viscera paint the ground a disgusting fungal green.

***SOON.***

Soon. Soon, Mortis will pay. They'll pay for ten millennia of their sins. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some would call this filler. I prefer the term "World-building". Don't worry, we get back to explosions in the next chapter.

I hate meetings. They are boring and exhausting and force me to leave Dawn's controls. But mostly, I hate formal attire.

Emperor damn these fools in their silly hats and shiny medals, gathering to speak their foolish thoughts and be seen by their foolish comrades. To argue and bicker and change nothing. To pretend they have some impact on the war on the planet below. What do I care if some Lord Nobody or Commodore Idiot thinks the Legio is positioned wrong? They know nothing. They command grains of sand on a map table. Their idea of war is seen from miles away. They've never looked a foe in the eyes as it expired.

Well, maybe the man they're flocking around has. A Commissar, some sort of war hero. Tall, muscular, scarred. He has the bearing of a man of lethality. He's with the Valhallans, foot soldiers of the Imperial Guard. I feel a strange fondness for them. They are ants beneath my feet - beneath Dawn's feet, that is - but are they not the Emperor's children? Do they not risk their lives, as I risk mine, for the sake of the Imperium? A voice shakes me out of my contemplation. I don't register the words. I ask them to repeat, as I look.

It's the Commissar. Cain, I dimly recall. He has the smile of a card shark. "Not enjoying the party, are you?" He's not mocking, as some are. Nor is he reverential, as others would be. A joke, but one that he shares. He's not comfortable with the scrutiny. His aide, a man with poor hygiene and an ill-fitted uniform, is carefully positioned to deter unwanted contact with the useless officers. I have some new respect for the man - but I still can't tell if he's mocking me or not. He awaits an answer. I give him my best smile. It's not very good. I have little practice. 

"Parties are fine, but I feel exposed. It's not exactly my place, you know. I'm sure you'd be happier on a battlefield." I take a shot in the dark, guided by an instinct I can barely understand. "...or at a card game." The light in his eyes tells me I may have hit on something. Perhaps there's more to this Hero Of The Imperium than I assumed at first.

"Well, the Imperium needs me, so I suppose I can't spend all my time at high-society functions like this." His smile is brittle, false. He could easily live his life in comfort. The bravado is a lie. It always is. The only ones who could spend their lives in unending war are psychopaths....or Astartes. There is little difference. As if the thought has summoned them, I feel the treads of an Astartes officer behind me. A clang of metal on metal rings out as he pounds a fist to his chest. 

"Princeps. My thanks for the last engagement. Sixteen of my warriors were saved by your shot." I turn to look him over. Dark green ceramite, livery of a sword with wings. A Dark Angel. The remnants of the First Legion. Adamantus has fought beside them since before the Heresy. We have never trusted them, nor they us. Secrets cling to these warriors like the mossy green cloaks they wear. Even in the presence of a Princeps of Adamantus, before the Lords and Generals and Commodores and whatnot, he leaves his helmet sealed. As if fearing an attack - or, more sinister, as if fearing the light of truth. There is something strange about these Astartes. Or, more accurately, there is everything strange about these Astartes. More strange than others, that is.

"They would not have been at risk if they had followed the order of deployment. Quite eager to throw themselves into the fray, are they not? Perhaps there is something on this world they seek more than the simple act of war." The thin accusation needles him. He tenses slightly. The faint vox-clicks within his armor amuse me. He's asking his superiors how badly they need Adamantus here. Despite his armor, the sting of words still makes it through. He wishes to leave. Or to kill me. The thought would be sobering if I feared the loss of flesh. I am, after all, the Herald of Dawn.

"I would never consider the Legio Adamantus to be lax in its pursuit of the Emperor's enemies, but perhaps you are simply unaccustomed to the zeal of the Angels. You are young, Princeps, perhaps in time you will learn." Subtle but cutting, the implied insult would have provoked a lesser Princeps. A lesser man. But I am more. I am the Herald of Dawn. I am her Princeps. I am Adamantus. And I will not be nettled by a gene-forged beast, so far lost from humanity that he no longer resembles it. I smile.

"Age is no issue for us lowly humans, venerable Astartes. I have earned my place at the fore, and my actions speak for themselves. But perhaps perspective is yet to be found. I'll have my eye on your noble brotherhood, to see what I can learn from your stellar example." He says nothing, but turns to depart. Across the room, another Astartes moves to intercept him, a warrior from another Chapter. Another culture. His helmet is mag-locked to his hip, a darker green ceramite than his Dark Angel cousin. His skin is black as coal, his eyes a burning red, bloody orbs that make me picture volcanic magma. The Angel shrugs him off. Dissent between the Chapters? A dry chuckle reminds me of the Commissar's presence. 

"'Lowly humans,' huh? Don't take this the wrong way, but it's easy to insult Astartes when you're used to driving a Titan. The rest of us have to play nice. Come to think of it, it's probably my duty to execute you for hurting their feelings." His grin is practiced and easy. He's used to charming people into line. I'm aware of this, but it's hard not to like him anyways. He pretends to think for a moment, before dismissing the idea. "Nah. Who knows, I might need a ride sometime, and where would I be then?

The insult is unintentional. He doesn't know why I should be upset at that. Among humans, it would be a joke. I suppress the anger. It's not his to bear. "I suppose I might have some use for a gallivanting Hero someday. Just watch where you're going down there. I'd hate to have the servitors scrape your fancy hat from the bottom of my foot." It's a weak joke, but he takes it in stride. I suspect he's just being polite. I'm not particularly funny. I decide that it would be best to be earnest. "If you need aid in the days to come, Cain, let me know. Fire support, reinforcements, or even just a ride. I'll be there."

He seems taken aback. Suspicious. He's trying to determine if I'm mocking him, or insulting him, but I am not. At length, he nods, his tone matching my own. "I appreciate that. I'd offer the same, but I don't know what I could possibly bring to a Titan battle." I'm ready to offer suggestions, but Vris comes to my side. It's time to leave the gathering. I've never been so relieved. I miss Dawn's presence in my mind. Our mind. I miss my command throne. I'm eager to resume my pursuit of the Titans of Mortis, to grind them beneath my heel, to feel the burn of nuclear fire as it purges their damned souls from the face of the universe.

I'm already turning to leave, the Commissar forgotten, the Astartes of no further concern. Mortis is falling back towards a refinery of some sort. I'd read the briefing materials, if I cared to, but I do not. They will burn, no matter where they stand. The Dark Angel says something to me, but it doesn't register. I can feel my pulse hammering in my chest, Dawn's call in my veins. She is awakening as I return to her, two hearts beating as one. This is what the Astartes will never understand. The Guard, the Tech-Priests, the Astartes, the psykers, none of them understand this bond, this perfect union of souls. Truly I am blessed to hold such a position. The Emperor has given me this gift, and asks only one thing in return: That I sweep the galaxy clear of those traitors, xenos, and mutants that would profane His domain with their existence.

Emperor show mercy upon their souls, for I will not.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you we'd get back to the shooting.

It occurs to me that there may be more to the Astartes than I allowed myself to acknowledge. Their low-slung battle vehicles, two-wheeled and covered in guns, weave in and out of the few remaining ork emplacements. The distant rattle of fire reaches me only vaguely. The turrets and gunners on Dawn's legs acquire their targets with ease, as the creatures seem to not know what it means to take cover. I don't even need to discharge my weaponry. The threat they pose is minimal.

"Herald of Dawn, this is Eternal Fist. Auspex returns at -23, 4 clicks. Do you copy?" Eternal Fist. A Warlord. One of Dawn's lesser brethren. It's made for heavy confrontations, long and drawn-out slugging matches with enemy Titans. Its auspex array is well-maintained, and as I focus on the designated area, I get the chime of a return. There's something there, but it's at the edge of Eternal Fist's engagement range. The low hills block it from sight. I order in a pair of Warhounds, fast and eager, to close on it from either side, keeping clear of my projected line of fire. Vox Memento and Vox Lux, brother machines, built together in the forges of Mars, whose Princeps share a close relationship. I'm no stranger to the sight of Faeran leaving Jamison's quarters late at night. Normally, the Legio would frown upon such intimacy, but I allow it in those under my command. I admit to a slight morbid curiosity about the intricacies of relationships.

Of course, such things are not meant to last. Jamison makes contact first, and the last transmission I get is a startled blurt of binary, a half-transmitted image file. The light of heavy weaponry ignites the shape of Vox Memento, the furious glow of nuclear fire, before the machine crumples backwards. With a scream of rage blaring from its war horns, Vox Lux charges the unknown enemy, loosing a volley of heavy plasma fire. It lasts nearly three full seconds before a second blast shreds the Titan and Princeps, a lonely cannon-arm arcing gracefully through the air. But it was enough. Faeran managed to send me a pict-capture of the thing that killed them both, and my blood goes cold at the sight. 

It's a Titan of Legio Mortis, but its legs have been sheared away, its upper body grafted to long treads that keep it low to the ground. While it was once a Warlord Titan, or something similar, its majesty has long since been stripped away. No longer is it something that can maneuver as a Titan would - it can only sit in ambush, the paired plasma weapons supplemented by a number of heavy laser weapons meant to strip the void shields from a serious foe. Mortis has left this twisted beast as a trap, meant to slay the largest Titan it could. They left this trap for me. Dawn's rage boils in my veins as I pass judgement.

Stripped of any shields of its own by Lux's barrage, the skulking beast is an easy target for the Apocalypse Missile Launchers mounted to Dawn's back. The firing solution prepared, I can no longer recall whose voice gives the order. It no longer matters.

***Fire missiles on target, three volleys of four each.***

Vris knows better than to argue. The payload is immense, particularly as the abomination is weakened, but I want to be sure. The grinding sound of joints locking in place for stability gives way to the storm of devastating projectiles. They howl through the air in a handful of seconds, striking their target with perfect aim. The series of rippling explosions is followed by a heavier, deeper blast - the sound of a titan's heart going critical and exploding. As if the light and sound weren't enough to tell us all, Dawn and I follow proper protocol regardless.

***ENGINE KILL.***

Our support vehicles follow close in our wake, to see what can be done to salvage the fallen Titans. As I stride past the wreck of the enemy machine, Dawn's sensors pick up a lone figure, fleeing the carnage. A heretic, a member of the Dark Mechanicum. I bring our foot down squarely upon his hunched body, voxing in the location of his remains to our salvagers. They know better than to actually use anything a fallen Tech-Priest would carry, but perhaps through study, we may someday find a way to save the Titans of the Traitor Legions from their foul masters. 

The thought flees my mind as my auspex picks up returns. Four, five, six Titans, closing on our position. Mortis has laid a trap, and were it not for our vigilance, we would have fallen into it. I scan the enemy outlines. Three Warhounds, flanking to the south, trying to disrupt and draw fire. I send Hunter's Moon and Blooded Fangs to counter them. A pair of Warhounds specifically made for killing their Scout-sized counterparts, their Princeps are well familiar with such maneuvers. Either could destroy this enemy squad alone, but I feel sending both is prudent. Two Reavers, bristling with guns and bearing immense Power Claws, are charging directly at us. I direct Eternal fist to engage. The last enemy walker is immense, nearly the size of Dawn herself, and it's already opening fire. I don't need to command Vris to get the void shields up. They already are, and they're prepared for the mass of fire the distant behemoth.

Explosions hammer the first layer of void shields, and I recognize the enemy's weapon. The dreaded Hades-pattern Gatling Blaster is a sight to be feared on lesser machines, and would shred ranks of infantry with ease. But Dawn is made of sterner stuff, and she was born for this. Built? Which of us was born human, and which forged whole in the Martian enclaves? Irrelevant. We shrug off the fire, disdainful, while working out a firing solution. I scan the geographical data as well, ensuring my target is clear of anything friendly. A terse command from Dawn - from me, rather - and the forces of Adamantus spread out, dispersing from my position. Eternal Fist can handle the bloodthirsty Reavers, and the six other Titans in the vanguard back away, taking up supporting fire positions. None of them try to fire on the distant foe. They all know what comes next. 

***Fire missiles on target, five volleys of six each.***

I brace myself, colossal feet finding steady grounding as I lower my weight. My right arm comes up, instinct and mathematics guiding me even as a salvo of rockets rises into the air. The enemy Titan lights up on the auspex with anti-munitions fire, attempting to shoot down the Apocalypse missiles burning through the air, but their rudimentary cogitators allow for slight evasive maneuvering. Of thirty fired, eighteen strike the target, peeling layer after layer of void shields, revealing an iridescent bubble around the enemy where excess force is shunted directly into the Warp. But that's irrelevant. My arm burns with power, searing nuclear fire scorching my nerves below the shoulder, peeling paint and igniting blessed parchments along the length, the cooling vents unable to handle such an overload of white-hot fury. I give the order before I fire, though everybody in Adamantus knows what's about to happen.

***Firing Plasma Annihilator.***

The force of the unleashed energy from a Sunfury-Pattern Plasma Annihilator is enough to send a lesser Titan reeling. Were there any glass within a kilometer of Dawn, it would shatter. Fortunately, such concerns are not mine to hold. Even as I give the order, Eternal Fist is darting to the side, clearing my path. The two enemy Reavers are within the corona of my weapon's collateral damage zone, but that's even better. In the blink of an eye, the line between Dawn's right arm and the enemy Titan's chest is brighter than the sun. The roar of the discharged energy would deafen unshielded humans. Even the resulting explosion from the badly compromised reactor at the heart of the enemy Titan seems puny compared to Dawn's wrath.

***ENGINE KILL.***

Eternal Fist wastes no time, darting through the aftermath of my shot to take his foes by surprise. One Reaver crumples beneath the weight of its guns, the command center buckling and leaving the machine alive, but incapacitated. The other attempts to bring its guns to bear, even as the immense chainfist the Warlord is named for tears its belly open. Eternal Fist nearly rips the second Reaver in half with a single blow, leaving it sprawled on its back in the sand. Backing up, Eternal Fist puts a volley of Laser Blaster rounds into each Reaver, detonating their reactors to ensure they stayed down.

"Double engine kill!"

Princeps Drake's voice is triumphant, thrilled, and I take a moment to reflect. Drake came to my door, recently, late at night and bolstered by intoxicants. I politely declined the implied intimacy, but the idea lingered. Perhaps, after this campaign, there will be time to pursue such entanglements. Perhaps not. At the moment, it is irrelevant. I will allow Drake this celebration. I check on the Warhounds, Hunter's Moon having already felled two of the enemy, and Blooded Fangs having torn the third to shreds. They're bickering about who got one of the kills. Easy camaraderie. I envy it. But something catches my attention in the noosphere. Vox transmissions at the edge of my reception, tagged with a scrambled code. I switch my focus to the feed, finding amusement at the snatches of conversation.

"-ust saying, what could these frakheads even be doing? Are they stupid enough to think they can use the-......-an't even say hello before the things open fire!" An irritated male voice, familiar, but I can't quite place it. I've heard it recently.

"If I knew what they wanted, Ciaphas, I'd tell you, but all we kno-.........-cron artifact unearthed at the refinery. That's enough for the Inquisition to take notice." A woman's voice, exasperated and tired, but the name she uses reminds me. Commissar Cain must be somewhere within range, and presumably, his friend is an Inquisitor. I contemplate the politest way to inform them of their insecure channel. Dawn's awareness joins me as I speak, enjoying this far more than she should.

 ***Commissar Cain, this is Princeps Vandine and the Herald of Dawn."*** And? That seems wrong. But for the life of me, I can't seem to grasp how. ***"Your transmission is coming through, but it's patchy. Was that a request for fire support, or a ride?*** It seems the most tactful way to say 'You're airing your laundry for anybody to hear', without revealing that I've heard anything Inquisition-related. Emperor knows I have no interest in ending up on their radar. His response, a few seconds later, is properly encoded with Commissarial vox codes, and if his Inquisitor friend has anything to say on the matter, she's presumably fixed her encoding, as I cannot hear it.

"Cain here. Negative on the ride, though I may need assistance at some point. We're - on your left, Jurgen, it's hiding behind that- yes, excellent. We're a little busy at the moment, Princeps. Perhaps we can catch up at the next party?"

 ***Of course. Enjoy your date.*** I encode the Adamantus frequencies in the vox-coding, allowing him access to our tactical net. Commissars can usually tap into Guard, Naval, and civilian frequencies, but a Princeps allowing a Commissar access to a Legio's network is unheard of. Vris looks at me in surprise, but fortunately, she does not seem to be judging me. She'd like an explanation, but I have none to give beyond instinct. We stride past the wreckage of the enemy Titan, its death-crater half a kilometer wide, the sand turned to glass and ruptured from the impact of my Plasma Annihilator. The twisted wreckage of its head leers up at me, flames burning in the empty eye sockets of the stylized skull, and I find myself nearly shivering with hate. These poor machines have been the servants of Chaos for more than ten thousand years, and every one I kill is saved from their clutches. What could the fury of my weapons truly be, if not the cleansing light of the Emperor? Dawn concurs with me, and we carry on towards the refinery. Whatever awaits us there, we will prevail. Mortis has nothing that can stop the guns of Adamantus.

***THEY WILL BURN.***

They certainly will.


	5. Chapter 5

The Vox-ghosts are getting worse as we close on the refinery. Scraps of corrupted binary from the Traitor Legion's Titans, marred messages from the members of the Imperial Guard units, something utterly inhuman occasionally breaking across channels, the battle-cries of the freshly-revealed supporting Chaos forces - and, of course, the banter of the Princeps under my command. I immerse myself in it, once I've confirmed the auspex is clear, and try to ascertain anything useful.

 _+-nt the Seven, Count the Se-+_ Traitor Marines. _+-round the sides, the bastards are trying t-+_ Imperial Guard. _+Requesting support Hydras at my location, we need-+_ Another regiment of the Guard. _+-will kneel before our gods, submit, embrace the Plaguefather, the-+_ Traitors, obviously. _+-body hit that damned bunker, it's making a damned mess of my squad!+_

This last one contains coordinates, well within my range. The damned Death Guard have come to reinforce their colossal companions, and to impede our progress. I spend a brief moment to direct a scanning auspex, then unleash a volley from my Hellstorm Cannon. Bolts of thermal fury tear the bunker to shreds - and with it the Plague Marines within - as I stride past. The coolant systems begin to flush out the barrels of the massive multilaser, a soothing relief, as I contemplate the matters facing us.

Beyond the obvious problems, Mortis has landed more than two dozen Titans. My faith is strong, and Dawn's weapons are potent, but that could be problematic. My auspex pings. Another lurking Reaver, hiding behind a rocky outcrop as it lies in wait. Another Titan sacrificed to attempt to kill me. To kill Dawn. Our fury rises, bile in my throat and a crackle around the edge of her void shields. Vris reports a spike in energy from the reactors. I don't need her to tell me this. I am the reactors. I am Dawn. I know every inch of bulkhead, feel every pushing piston, hear every whining servo. 

***Drake. Enemy engine lying in wait. Destroy it.***

I remain just shy of the enemy's firing range, pinging my auspex in the direction of the Refinery. I'm playing my part well: Cautious, nervous, vigilant. The enemy Titan remains motionless, weapons low, shields off, auspex array silent for fear of alerting its prey. It seeks to take me unawares, and doesn't know it's been spotted. I take a hesitant step forward, engaging the main drives, and as I step into its lane of fire, alerts flash in my mind. The enemy machine is charging its weapons, void shields left down, determined to damage Dawn before it's brought down. Fortunately, I have outmaneuvered it.

Eternal Fist smashes the enemy machine from behind, tearing the first weapon arm from its body, the force of the impact knocking it sideways and sending the shot from its second arm - a stream of solid projectiles, likely a mega-bolter - wide, stitching a line across the landscape, even as Drake continues dismantling it. The enemy is clever, and I keep watch for any further surprises. I find myself smiling at Drake's whoops of triumph, and it's only a moment later that I get confirmation.

"Engine kill."

It is almost strange that they would be so determined to buy such time. I check over the analysis of the refinery again, wondering if I've missed something. A Mechanicus facility, nothing particularly special. It meets the tithing quotas regularly, has a low rate of attrition, and is generally a reliable, if dull, industrial facility in the back end of nowhere. The Ork incursion seemed completely unaware of its existence, the Mortis and the Death Guard seem fixated on that objective, ignoring the hive-cities completely.

Whatever the true goal, the forces of Chaos are unusually well-coordinated. Readings from scout fliers and orbital picts suggest a large concentration of enemy Titans have already reached the refinery and formed a perimeter, and the Dark Angels have already vanished. Some secretive mission, no doubt, leaving us without the support of their vehicles. I vox this in, attempting to get some answers regarding their status, but I am met with silence. Nobody knows where the secretive, reclusive Astartes have gone, and it irks me to no end.

_+-ithout the blade, I cannot continue! Find that damned Lord Cipher, the ritual must be completed! The intruders have almost reached the sanctum!+_

That one stands out, the advanced arrays Dawn boasts slicing into a secured Traitor communications array. I pinpoint the location of origin, weighing my options. Behind me, Silver Hound - my escorting Reaver and the final member of Echo Maniple - waits patiently, a vigilant guardian. "The Old Man," Princeps Imdris, has orders to guard Dawn, and intends to do so. Our combined auspex array is enough to detect approaching threats, and the weight of Hunter's Moon, Blooded Fangs, Silver Hound, Eternal Fist, and Herald of Dawn are enough to bring down any threat. I feel a wince of remorse for the fallen - not only the Princeps, but the Titans they commanded as well. The salvage teams have informed me that restoration is unlikely.

"Princeps? If you can hear me, I think I'd rather like that ride now. And - yes, I know - and perhaps some fire support."

Cain. I am not surprised to see that his tagged coordinates are near the origin of the intercepted Traitor messages. Where else would a Hero of the Imperium be, if not routing the forces of Chaos and slaying their champions? I vox a quick affirmation before relaying the intercept course to my Titans. They move together, perfect in form and practice, and I am proud of them. We are proud. Dawn almost purrs within my mind, her fury somewhat diminished by the lack of visible enemies. I stride towards the bunker where the Commissar is requesting pickup, and it's less than ten minutes before his entourage is on the command bridge, seating themselves in the double row of harnesses made for carrying a non-Mechanicus honor guard.

To say they are a ragged, motley assortment would be an understatement. Cain himself - tall, sturdy, a hair over two meters tall and well-built - has a number of small cuts on his cheeks, and the ragged state of his greatcoat suggests heavy combat. The trooper - or Gunner, rather, going by his insignia - beside him is...off. I vaguely recognize the man as Cain's aide from the party. His armor fits poorly, his odor is unpleasant, and there is a subtle sense of wrongness about him that alerts my scanners. But he's with the Commissar, and it is not my place to judge. Behind the Gunner is a Valhallan trooper, excitement in her eyes as she gazes around the command deck. Her ident reads 'Penlan', but the flak helmet she wears bears the callsign 'Jinxie'. Presumably meaningful, but irrelevant to me at the moment. Past Penlan stands the final member of their group, a tall and stern-looking woman in power armor. I consider her for a moment. Not Sororitas, so therefore she must be the Inquisitor. Her helmet is mag-locked to her hip, and bright blue eyes stare through my very soul from behind an untidy fringe of blonde hair. She confirms my assumption as she raises her Inquisitorial rosette, letting it dangle from one armored hand.

I disengage myself from the command throne for a moment, standing and giving the assortment a once-over. My command staff make the sign of the cog, murmuring blessings of the Omnissiah, drawing looks of unease. I cannot blame them. Most outsiders don't deal with the Mechanicus' servants well, nor do they understand the philosophical connections between the Omnissiah and the Emperor. To be fair, neither do I. Their confusion is increased a moment later as I make the sign of the Aquila, and speak the blessings and welcome of the Emperor. Vris makes introductions as I reconnect to Dawn, whose amusement is somewhat lessened by the knowledge of traitors beneath our feet.

Introductions are made. The disheveled trooper is Jurgen, Cain's personal aide, and the other is 'Jinxie' Penlan, a soldier of the Valhallan 597th who, as far as I can tell, is simply clumsy and unlucky. When I point out that she's alive, she simply shrugs, and Jurgen merely mumbles "As the Emperor wills it." The Inquisitor, meanwhile, is Inquisitor Vail, of the Ordo Xenos, and she doesn't give me any further information than that. We descend into an uneasy silence, and I notice her palm resting on what seems to be a plasma pistol holstered on the thigh of her power armor, both gleaming gold and elegantly decorated with figures of saints and notable psalms. 

"So-" I begin, only to be cut off by the Inquisitor.

"Choose your next words very carefully, Princeps. Your clearance is nowhere near high enough to be asking questions." Her tone is stern, but I detect notes of exhaustion. There's no sense in pushing her, but on the other hand....who is she to command us? To threaten Adamantus? The Inquisition is vast and powerful, certainly, but we serve the same master.

"Actually, I was going to say I hope you enjoyed your date." The Commissar can't quite hide his grin, and the Inquisitor gives him a wintry stare. "In fact, you've inspired me to follow your example. Vris, open a channel to the Fist." Vris nods her assent, and a moment later, I'm linked to my fellow Princeps. ***Drake. Once this is over, and we're back topside, swing by my quarters. Bring that amasec you offered.***

Drake's response is cautious but excited, and I can't stop the grin on my face as well. The idea of such intimacy is...thrilling. Terrifying. Alien. And yet, is feels instinctively right. My passengers are speaking amongst themselves once more, and I could probably simply leave them to their own devices, but I decide to cut in. I'm doing that more than I used to. Am I becoming more confident, or simply reckless? I've seen what happens to overconfident Princeps before. I've stood over their memorial stones. Shed tears for their foolhardy selves. But that's irrelevant. I need to address Cain.

"Commissar, I believe you requested fire support. Should I assume it's on the Traitor assembly fourteen meters below the bunker?" He confirms, and as he begins explaining - something about chaos cultists, a ritual, and Traitor Astartes, I'm not particularly listening - I'm already backing away, ordering the Warhound Princeps duo into place. ***"August, Vermillion, crack the bunker. Plasma blastguns on full. I want a hole twenty meters deep."*** They confirm my orders, and as I clear the area, they unleash their weaponry, the screams or traitors echoing briefly along their vox-net.

_+Count the Seven. Count the Seven. Count the Seven.+_

Traitors are inbound on our location. I order my Titans into a skirmishing formation, a defensive array that will allow me to fire over their heads if necessary. Imdris, in the Hound, watches backs, wary of Traitor ambushes, but the auspex is pretty clear. ***"Four Reavers. Two Warhounds. Skirmish pattern beta-four. Engage."*** A chorus of confirmations follows my orders, and I turn my attention back to my passengers. "Where to, Commissar?"

Cain's expression is grim, bitter, as though he were forced to suck on a sour fruit. "To the refinery. We have unfinished business there." Another stare from the Inquisitor, which I meet with a cheerful grin. "Excellent. As a matter of fact, we have some business of our own to attend to."

Mortis awaits, after all. And after that, Drake. I wonder which will be the greater challenge. I look forward to finding out.


	6. Chapter 6

I hate meetings. They are boring and exhausting and force me to leave Dawn's controls. Whenever possible, I try to send Vris to attend in my stead - after all, it's not like I pay attention anyways. What do they really expect, anyways? They're not going to listen to my advice, I'm not going to follow their idiotic orders, And really, I'm much happier just-

"Do you agree, Princeps Vandine?"

Damn. They're all looking at me. Somebody said something important. Let's see, something about the Orks being wiped out, the Traitor Titans have fallen back from the refinery, the cultist sects were doing culty things, but what exactly was the question asked? I'm drawing a blank, which is unfortunate. Fortunately, the Inquisitor has noticed, and stepped forwards.

"If I may field this one, honored Princeps?" I nod, attempting to act regal and noble, and studiously ignoring the fact that I seem to have been drooling as I daydreamed. Whoops. She generously overlooks it, as well, stepping forwards into the assembly. Across the room, a pair of Astartes shift their weight, dark green armor and sealed helmets marking them as Dark Angels. I vaguely recall that the one with a gleaming silver skull-like helmet must be a Chaplain, a neat tidbit to pass the time. Four other Astartes stand around them, a Salamander and three other Chapters represented among the generals and commanders.

"The heretic cell is being purged from the refinery, but we intercepted a number of their transmissions." She has a beautiful voice, slightly rough and rich as honey. I briefly wish Drake were here - or, more ideally, that Drake and I were elsewhere, with sixteen hours of downtime. Alas. But the Inquisitor is gesturing to me. There I go, daydreaming again. Best to pay attention. "-graciously allowed me to utilize the auspex of the Herald of Dawn, breaking their encryption. Their communications have centered around their commander, referred to as the 'Lord Cypher'. I have forwarded a copy of these transmissions to several Inquisitorial outposts for dissemination, and the Princeps has similarly forwarded the information to Legio Adamantus for safekeeping and verification."

This is a surprise to me, as I have done no such thing. However, the real surprise is the reaction of the Astartes across the room, one of the Dark Angels taking a step forwards, his bolter clasped in one massive fist and half-lifted. The skull-helmeted Chaplain claps his hand down on his bloodthirsty comrade's shoulder, and halts him, even as the other four are already pivoting in place, raising their heavy armaments at the Dark Angel. In the absolute silence of the room, the vox-clicks of their private communications are obvious. After several seconds, the bolter returns to its thigh position, locking in place, and the geneforged super-soldier storms out, leaving the Chaplain to speak in his place. "Apologies, brothers, but his zeal occasionally runs away with him. I will have words regarding his behavior. Please, continue."

It takes a moment to realize, but I just came a hair's breadth from death. The Dark Angel had had his lenses turned squarely on me, and the bolter had been coming up in my direction. Even the intervention of the others would not have been fast enough to stop the first shot, and even if he had been brought down by his fellow Astartes, that would have been of little comfort to my remains. I've seen what a bolter does to its targets, and I have no illusions of my own survival. The Inquisitor takes a moment before holstering her plasma pistol - I notice that she seems to have danced aside, evading the lane of fire that would have seen me dead - and resuming her briefing.

"....right. Anyways, there is very little information on this 'Lord Cypher', though I have seen records of a similar title being used by the leader of a Chaos cult some four hundred years ago. It seems likely that it is a hereditary title - or completely unrelated to that one. However, this may be a good place to start. If this Cypher is related, or an heir, or even just took the mantle for themself, this may give us some insight into the particular cult, and its goals or plans." 

It takes a moment, but the Salamander steps forwards, willing to voice the alternative that nobody wants to speak. "It may be a Traitor Astartes. Though they have fallen from the Emperor's grace, they retain many of His gifts - longevity and tactical acuity remain, in many cases." Nobody is quite staring at the remaining Dark Angel, but we're all coming rather close. Wait, no, I'm staring. He's staring back. I have never missed Dawn's embrace as much as I do now. The Salamander, however, turns his kind eyes on me, even if the words are not directly for my benefit. "I know it can be intimidating to contemplate. Through the Ruinous Powers, many Astartes turned renegade, many millennia ago. It is not, however, shame that compels us to fight them, but Duty. Honor. There is no shame in knowing that a brother has fallen, only in failing to correct that mistake." He turns to stare directly at the Chaplain, whose wing-shaped power mace hasn't left his hand since his arrival.

Boy, these meeting rooms have great acoustics. I can hear my own heartbeat as these hulking warriors stare each other down, weapons close at hand but not quite drawn, accusations neatly skirted around and honor remaining strained but unbroken. Commissar Cain and the Inquisitor are another five feet further away from me. How do they even do that? I swear, I never saw them move. He has a chainsword drawn, and her plasma pistol is very faintly humming. I could have sworn I didn't see either of them move a muscle. 

A man clears his throat. Lord General Zimman, or....Zelman? Zyborz? I wasn't paying attention. But he has a no-nonsense attitude that I appreciate. "Gentlemen, though I admire such values, we face a tangible enemy to destroy. If there is nothing else from any of the assorted parties present, I would appreciate it if we could get back to it. Commissar, Inquisitor, a word?" I turn to my servitors, giving them a terse nod. It's time for us to leave the meeting - and the sooner I'm back in Dawn's welcoming embrace, safe away from the murderous Astartes, the better. 

My short-relay communications device lights up. Vris has sent an entire squad of Skitarii, my elite troopers, who will be here momentarily. A pair of angry buzzes sound behind me, servitors bringing their pitiful weapons to bear on the figure who has followed me into the Mechanicus antechamber. A chuckle like tectonic plates grinding together follows. "Apologies, Princeps. I did not mean to intrude."

It's the Salamander, his volcanic eyes and ebony skin oddly familiar to me. He raises his palms, a universal symbol of peace, and I command the servitors to stand down. It's not like they could hurt him, anyways. I don't know what to say. I wonder if he's going to kill me. The Astartes, after all, are brothers. They would value their friendship over my life. I lift my chin, and decide to face my end with dignity. What I don't expect is the laughter that greets me.

"No no, my friend. I am not here to harm you. In fact, I wish to ensure that nothing unfortunate befalls you. I understand that the Dark Angels can be difficult. Secretive. Hostile, even. But please believe me when I tell you that the Salamanders operate differently. I wish to offer you the services of five of my own number - Tech-Marines, who have been inducted into the Mechanicus of holy Mars, and who I am sure would consider it a great honor to aid such a venerable Titan Legion. I do hope there is room for them aboard the Titans of your command - though I would never presume to station them aboard the Herald of Dawn without your consent."

Behind him, five shapes lumber into the room. Is that fair? They're not graceful, but 'lumber' seems too crude. They're big and ungainly, but would I be any less so with all that metal? Their verdant armor is equipped with mechadendrites, ocular enhancements, extra arms and clamps and power tools. They seem hesitant to stand before me, obviously deciding which greeting to use. I make the sign of the Aquila, and they mirror it, obviously grateful that I made the matter simpler. I would refuse the offer out of hand, normally, but the exchange with the Dark Angel has me shaken. Or....am I simply more observant of the nuance of the situation? I hate diplomacy. But I don't have the energy to be stubborn.

"I do not presume to call you Brothers, of course, but this is a welcome aid. Salamanders, please accept my hospitality, and allow me to introduce you to the Herald of Dawn. If she likes you, you will be more than welcome to join us in battle." The awe in their eyes is obvious, and I am reminded again of the honor which I take for granted. Their leader is both confused and overjoyed when I vox Vris, informing her that I am bringing six Astartes guests to the reactor deck. They will stand beside me and place their hands to the metal separating them from the nuclear heart of a God-Machine, and feel her soul as it touches theirs. For those of the Mechanicus, it would be an honor worth more than their lives, and the goodwill it could build between the Legio and their Chapter can be a boon in the years to come. I never considered the Astartes to be friends or enemies, before today - but if the Angels seek my death, perhaps it would be best to embrace their comrades, one of whom may have saved my life already.

The Skitarii arrive, timing as perfect as usual, and we set off, the Astartes remaining silent as we go, but their excitement obvious. Like children on Emperor's Day, going to see the golden effigy and receive their presents, these transhuman paragons would gladly shed their own blood for the honor that I embrace every day. It's a perspective I don't often get to see. Perhaps if I went to more meetings.....no. No meetings. I nearly died today. Next time, I'll send somebody else. Not Vris, she's too useful. Some lackey. But one question remains unanswered, gnawing away at my mind.

If the Dark Angel was willing to kill me in plain view of those present, at the cost of his own life, over just a name.....what would he do if I should discover more of this Lord Cypher? For the first time I can recall, I wish I could leave this planet behind and forget everything. But I suppose there's nothing for it. I will introduce these Martian Astartes to Dawn, forward the collected transmissions and intelligence to Adamantus relays, and then face the future, no matter what comes. 


	7. Chapter 7

I have never been so thrilled to be wrong. Despite the hostility in the meeting, things are progressing well. The Salamanders showed proper reverence to Dawn, and she has accepted their presence. Three are remaining aboard with myself, and two have taken up on the Eternal Fist with Drake. We expected to feel uneasy, distrustful, but these Astartes are friendly, open, courteous, respectful. One of their number - damn, I can't recall his name - even assured me with the utmost sincerity that the opportunity to touch the soul of a god-machine is the greatest honor he has ever known, insisting that it was nothing short of true communion with the Emperor. Dawn and I swell with pride at the remark. She is beautiful. We are glorious. The compliment is well-deserved, and pride threatens to unhinge us. But we are consummate predators, on the trail of a quarry we have followed to this unpleasant world. 

***ENGINE KILL!***

The bloodlust is momentarily appeased as the enemy machine falls, venting heat in a desperate attempt to stave off its death. The futility is obvious, and it erupts into a cataclysmic fireball, the force of the blast disrupting the void shields of its nearest ally. 

***Drake, advance. Vermillion, covering pattern Alpha-Seven, August, flank at forty-three degrees and cover wide. Imdris, with me, scan the rear arc."**

Perfectly ordered, flawless execution, five colossal monuments to the glory of the Emperor, and my heart sings despite the odds. Fourteen enemy Titans yet remain, and though we have downed twenty-six of their number, a handful of the survivors have been identified. Two are Reaver-class Titans, twisted and corrupted by the Ruinous Powers, named Hand of Ruin and Myrmidon Rex. The lead machine seems to be a Warlord Titan, hunched and decaying, whose guns once fired upon the Imperial Palace on Terra ten thousand years ago. Twice over the years has the Manus Mortis crossed paths with the Herald of Dawn, and she has sworn to end the filth-encrusted machine this time. Many Titans were corrupted into service to Chaos, but Manus Mortis joined willingly, and is a stain upon the honor of all god-machines. We will purge its sins in fire.

We stride across the plains, the advance of several mechanized units of Imperial Guard following in our wake. The Lord General Zyvan requested that we walk alongside them, to bolster morale, and I offered something better: To walk ahead, an aegis of plasma and adamantium to burn a path. The Guard seem to be in good spirits, and as I scan their frequencies, most of them are thrilled to have us. They're referring to us as "The Bolt Magnets", which I cannot argue. When the combat starts, we will certainly draw the lion's share of fire. And speaking of lions...

***"Are there any eyes on the Angels? They've missed their check-in times and are not responding to my hails."***

A chorus of negatives meet my request, and I cut the link before giving voice to my growl. Dawn joins me, the resonance of our ire audible enough to cause the Guard nearby some concern. Despite the cooperation of the Salamanders, the Angels have been unreliable, inconsistent, secretive, and outright hostile. Their refusal to work with us is irksome, but I have a functional workaround: Any plan I make simply assumes that the Dark Angels are not an asset, and in fact, do not exist. If there is a task required of them, I cannot assume that they will do it. As if summoned by my thoughts, a pair of Dark Talon gunships sweep past the Dawn, their passing disrupting our Void Shields as they do.

***"Dark Angel gunships, this is Herald of Dawn. Cease disruptive maneuvers and respond at once."***

They ignore me, of course, simply sweeping along and vanishing behind some low hills. I didn't expect a response, but I'm irritated all the same. I'm almost tempted to fire a warning shot, but there's no need for-

"Princeps, I'm picking up another network of bunkers near where we lost the gunships. No recognizable idents inside, but if the Dark Angels went in there, they might be in the line of fire."

Damn. They're pursuing some secret agenda again, no doubt, and whatever they're after, they're racing us to it. On the one hand, conflict with our own forces would be unpleasant, but on the other hand, is there any way I could buy time? I order Vris to open a channel to Zyvan. He's in a good mood, as we've been making excellent progress, and I do my best to be diplomatic - and of course, it helps that we've been of such aid.

***"Lord General, my apologies, but we need to hold position. There is an issue that I must attend to, and I would rather it be done now than under fire. My maniple will remain vigilant and ensure that we will not be ambushed. Perhaps the Guard could also use a few hours' rest?"***

He isn't thrilled by the prospect, but he understands these sorts of things. He also doubtless understands the potential hostilities on the horizon. He agrees, and I guide Dawn to a resting position, legs braced and locked, auspex arrays on full sweeping mode, before disengaging myself from the command throne. I tell Vris that I'll return shortly, and turn down the hallway.

I know these corridors like I know my own hands. Dawn and I are a singular being, and until the day her soul engulfs my mind and consumes me, we'll share a bond that few others can comprehend. I take a curling staircase, too narrow for the tech-adepts, too sacred for engineers. It takes me to the Reactor deck, and as I pass through the Generatorium passes, menials and Tech-priests stop and stare. To most Princeps, walking these paths would be beneath them, unseemly. I know better. Every single corridor is Dawn, and to not know her would be insulting. Shameful. Disrespectful to our bond.

I run a hand along the piping, Dawn's mind brushing my own as I do, and nearby, the displays flicker and hum, the simple presence of Dawn's attention levelling out systems and redistributing energy as needed. The murmured prayers to the Omnissiah fall on my ears, but slide off like errant raindrops. What care I for the Mechanicus' god when I and Dawn have one another?

The doors to the Reactor Chamber open, and the Salamanders turn to stare at me, surprise plain on their obsidian faces. They begin to offer apologies, but I still them with a smile and a wave.

"It's fine. Dawn has welcomed you, feel free to stay. I won't be long."

I sit on the warm, plasteel decking, resting my lightly-augmented back against the shuttered adamantium wall of Dawn's heart. I close my eyes, the sounds of the Salamanders' conversation fading from my awareness as I lower my mental walls, communing with Dawn in a way strictly forbidden by the Collegia Titanica.

They teach that there must always be control, that the instant a Princeps reveals their heart to their Titan, it is over. I dimly wonder why none of their professors are drawn from the ranks of former Princeps - but then again, I could never leave the rapture of the command throne for a life of dully tutoring novices that have never so much as touched a manifold. Also, there aren't many of us that outlive our Titans. 

To explose your mind to a Titan's is to accept your place, a fleshy cog in a machine beyond your understanding. One half of a beautiful cyborg symbiosis. The guiding focus that directs the fury of a volcano. A Titan can no more pilot itself than I could grow wings and fly off into the void. We need one another, and in that need we find respect. Love, even. My budding fondness for Drake could never compare to the bond I share with Dawn. And as I lower the barriers, our minds are one.

I stand on the soil of holy Mars, the heavy plating of the repair bay beneath my treads. My arm has been torn free in the latest fight, but I am proud. I have done my part against the traitor Horus, and laid low the Chaos Titans that dared to proclaim their treason. My Princeps could not survive the rigors of battle, and even now, his mind settles easily into the immense consciousness that drives me. My nuclear heart burns brighter, startling the technicians below. Manus Mortis will not escape me again, I-

I stand at the shore of my home village. The water stretches out beyond the horizon, and the sand between my toes is gritty and irritating. But there's no time to wash it away. I am four years old, and the Trial is here. Today, the Mechanicus scouts will come, and will determine which of us will be useful to them. Some will become Tech-adepts. Some will become menial laborers. And some rare few will go to the Collegium, and may someday be allowed to pilot a twenty-foot-tall Knight, or - dare I dream - a Titan. I'm already forgetting my parents' faces. If I am not accepted by the Mechanicus, I will return to this beach, fill my pockets with stones, and walk out into the water. There is no future to me beyond service to the Emperor. If-

My eyes snap open, even as Dawn lets out a savage growl that resonates through her very bones. I've been here for four hours, and the Salamanders are looking up from their prayers. I look them over, with Dawn's mind still deeply linked to my own. Dawn trusts them, and I trust her. We are one.

"I am going to purge the heretic bunker system ahead. If the Dark Angels are within, they will be given ample warning. If they disregard it, they may take it up with the Emperor when I send them His side."

There's concern in their eyes as they consult with one another, but I'm already walking past them, my mind made up. **Our** mind made up. We know what must be done. When we return to the command throne, Vris is already switching systems back to our control, joints unlocking and firing systems re-engaging. Our voice is a brassy trumpet, battle horns sounding a challenge to the Emperor's enemies, even as we open the hailing frequencies assigned to the Astartes vox-network.

***"Dark Angels. This is Herald of Dawn. In twenty minutes, we are opening fire on the bunker network at 4148-alpha, and we will not hold back. You have this long to fall back - or to contact us for further discussion. Glory to the Emperor. May His wisdom guide you."***

There is no response. The chronometer begins to wind down, counting down the seconds, even as we position for a salvo. The commanders of the Guard regiment directly behind are rousing their soldiers from their rest, excited chatter as they jockey for the best positions to watch. They can see that Dawn's Volcano Cannon is readying for a shot, and their delight is obvious by their vox traffic. None of them have had a clear view of one of Dawn's primary armament. Their commanders feel it'd be good for morale.

The beam of incandescent fury pours forth, the few meters of reinforced rockcrete nothing beneath the awesome force of a Titan's guns. The first bunker collapses in an instant, and as I maintain the beam, Dawn turns, careful adjustments keeping the beam on target as it begins tearing through the connected network of bunkers, tunnels, and warehouses. Explosions go off, stockpiled munitions detonating, and we feel a stab of vicious pleasure at the sight.

"Princeps! Incoming fire, thirteen degrees starboard!"

The void shields flare into life, crackling as they shunt the kinetic energy of the massive bombardment shells into the Empyrean. A rainbow flicker gleams at their extremities, riotous colors marking the assault from the enemy engine, a solitary Reaver lurching towards us. It lets loose a bellow, horns and an inhuman voice fusing into one awful sound. Vris doubles over at her seat, the sound brutalizing her brain even as our dampeners compensate for it. The roar is cut off by Drake's reply, a thunderous war cry that coincides with the impact of the two Titans. Drake's Turbolasers batter away at the daemon-machine even as the Eternal Fist's fist tears its armoring away, Drake's flare for close-quarters combat taking it by surprise.

***"August, Vermillion, engage. Drake, pull back."***

The Warhound Princeps whoop their pleasure, turbolaser batteries tearing away at the remnants of the armor as they charge their plasma blastguns, powerful but short-ranged weapons eager for the kill. They fire at the same time, detonating the heart of the enemy Titan even as they slag its head, bantering good-naturedly between themselves about who gets credit for the kill. We log it as a joint kill, both Titans getting equal credit, and mark Drake down as an Assist in the kill. But there's something wrong. Something I'm not considering. I feel Dawn's concern twinned with my own in a disorienting moment of lucid solitarity. We both feel the same way.

***"Full maniple, fall back immediately. Something is wrong."***

Its' too late. The blast is enormous, kicking up thousands of tons of earth beneath the trio. A perfect ambush, Titans lured together by the promise of easy prey, and a Chaos Titan sacrificed to take out....how many of ours?

***"Maniple, report!"***

August and Vermillion respond immediately, reporting significant damage to most of their motor systems. Hunter's Moon has lost its weapons, and Blooded Fangs is barely standing. They'll need to be taken to a repair bay for months to repair the damage, but at least their Princeps are alive. Of Drake, I hear nothing, Princeps Imdris circling around behind me in Silver Hound as I try to get readings through the debris and smoke. 

"Vandine, stay back! They're inside, it's not- Damn, them! Damn the turncoat Angels! Salamanders, I need-"

The transmission cuts out, Drake's voice interrupted by the sounds of explosions and alarms. I divert power from weapons systems to the auspex arrays and pict-capture systems, desperate to see what's going on. I can't see. Static and smoke and debris and not a single damned reliable signal getting through to me. There's a pain in my jaw, teeth clenched so hard they threaten to crack, and Dawn's nuclear heart roars in frustration alongside my own. It is unacceptable.

***"Drake! Respond, Drake! August, Vermillion, do you have eyes on the Fist?"***

The smoke clears, just enough for a momentary glance. The Fist is on one knee, tilted sideways, armorcrys panels of the command deck shattered. A figure is pulling itself free, and it turns to face me. For a moment, I hope it's one of the Salamanders, but the visuals flag it as the wrong shade of green. Dark green power armor, topped with white robes stained in red. A pair of pistols in its hands, an ornate sword sheathed across its back. The Dark Angel stands there, as if it can feel my stare, and returns it, a solitary figure, scanners barely registering the ancient design of its power armor before the smoke rolls back in. 

By the time the Warhounds have visuals on the Fist, I've pinpointed its signatures, its reactors taken offline, the body heat of the crew already faded. I know in my heart what it means. I've sent the pict-captures to the commanders of the Guard, to the Salamanders, to the Inquisitor. Damn the Angels. I won't allow this to pass. And until the Angels are called to task for this, I won't march a meter further. I've lost Drake, I cannot - **WILL NOT** \- lose the others as well. This treason will be addressed, or by the Emperor, I will not fire another shot in aid of Zyvan.


	8. Chapter 8

I hate meetings. They are boring and exhausting and force me to leave Dawn's controls. And this one hasn't even started yet. It has been two days since the betrayal, and everybody is taking their damned time. Savants are analyzing the pict-captures I was able to take of the Angel standing atop Fist's shattered bridge. My stomach lurches at the memory, and then again as I recall the aftermath. Drake, dead in the command throne. Moderatii shredded by bolt rounds, each shot clean and precise and perfect. Damn the Angel that killed them. Damn their geneforged hearts.

I calm myself. Activating the minor noospheric augmentation anchored in my spine, I reach out to Dawn for comfort. She burns brightly among the datastreams,   
  
"My Princeps? They're arriving."

Vris is worried. The Skitarii guardians are more a show of authority, but should the Angels decide to show - should they decide to fight - the standard weaponry of the Mechanicus' troops will not be enough. Las-fire will not pierce the heavy ceramite and adamantium the Astartes clad themselves in.

That's what the multi-meltas are for. Sixteen specialized troops, inserted among the Skitarii forces, whose lasguns are actually heavy anti-armor meltaguns, weapons that incite a minute fusion reaction to melt through the hulls of tanks and the bulkheads of heavy voidships. Should the need arise, their weapons will be up to the task. I hope they will be enough. The Astartes are clever. Scheming. They are not to be underestimated. They have denied all accusations, which makes my blood boil. Figuratively.

Two days of Angels refusing to admit fault. They insist that I am "mistaken". That Drake was "mistaken". That Dawn is "mistaken". They use that word because they fear calling us liars. They insist that they do not use that pattern of power armor, that us simple humans cannot be trusted to tell the difference between an Astartes of their order and another. They feign innocence. I will not hear it.

"We will gladly walk with you, Princeps."

The deep voice is both alarming and reassuring. The Salamanders with me have lost two brothers - and while their anger is slow to rise, their honor is at stake. Their noble oaths are compromised by the possibility of a traitor. This compels them to walk beside me, a show of good faith. I feel a moment of clarity, and turn to their leader. Diplomacy, I suppose, cannot hurt - and honesty will be a useful building block in this.

"If you would be so kind as to relay a message to your leader here, please let him know that no matter what happens next, I have given the Salamanders the highest commendations in my reports. I truly appreciate the aid you have rendered, and hope that the friendship between your brotherhood and mine outlives us both. The Emperor's loyal forces are hard-pressed enough without internal divisions tearing us apart."

The Salamander nods, volcanic eyes staring right through me as a corner of his mouth pulls into a grin.

"I am honored, Princeps. I share your hope for the future. However, are you not now pursuing an internal division?"

Nausea washes through me. Rage. Pain. Guilt. Despair. Grief. Rage again. The Salamander simply waits. It's obvious he sees what I'm feeling. He's no Psyker, I just have no poker face. There is no judgement in his gaze. I am thankful for that. Were I not so wounded, I would be ashamed of my lack of self-control. Finally, I find the words.

"A beast has slain one of my pack. A Princeps of my maniple lies dead, killed by treachery. I will see the traitor burn in the fires of the Emperor's wrath, and then return to purging the Traitor Titans that still walk this world. Princeps Imdris and I are more than a match for the remaining Mortis machines - and when we find Manus Mortis, we will bring down the Emperor's wrath, delayed these many millennia. It is my sincerest hope that you will be there with me."

I offer my hand, tiny and pale and fragile, realizing dimly what I must look like. I'm a little shy of two meters, tall by human standards, but slender, hair pulled back in a single braid down my back, and the Salamander is massive. My skin is as pale as an ice-worlder, kept confined and shielded from the suns of the worlds I stride, and my build is that of a scholar, while he is a volcanic demigod of a man. There's a hissing and several crackles as he disengages his gauntlet, revealing a hand the size of my rib cage. Obsidian fingers gently wrap around my forearm, and I do my best to get my fingers even halfway around the slab of muscle and scars he seems to think is an arm. We stand there for a moment, eyes, locks, clasping arms like Knights before a skirmish. I know I can trust this one. He will fight, and die, for the safety of the Imperium. And - once this Traitor is cleansed - I will do the same.

No more words are required. My troops have their orders. Captain Dalton leads them, a competent man with a sharp mind, and it is his lead the soldiers will follow, not mine. This is ideal anyways. I am no tactical officer. I am a Princeps, and if I should walk into battle without a Titan, I have already failed. Today, I am the speaker for Adamantus - and also, should my fears be realized, the bait for a Traitor. We set off towards the meeting chamber, protective ranks of mechanized infantry around me comforting. Too much so, I realize. I'm letting my guard down. I'm getting complacent. Just like Drake did. I don't even realize we're under attack until the grenade goes off.

Pulses of electromagnetic energy scramble mechanical systems, playing havoc with the complex systems in the Salamanders' armor even as the Skitarii twitch and jump. My legs give out beneath me as their implanted cybernetics go haywire, and with barely-remembered instincts, I roll sideways as I hit the ground, trying to get clear of the storm of bolt rounds pulping my forces. Hot shrapnel stings my back, but I manage to drag myself out of the fray. A massive hand grabs me by the arm, cracking bones in the process, and drags me behind a solid-looking bulkhead like a child moving a ragdoll. With a hiss, the door slams shut, coming as a surprise to me before I realize my position. On the far side of the door lie the remains of my Skitarii force, and the disoriented Salamanders. On this side, I'm alone. Apart from the Dark Angel, that is.

I scramble back, trying to put distance between us, but it's not shooting. Instead, it slowly advances, the dark green of its armor bedecked in heraldry and insignias that mean nothing to me. A tabard across its chest doubtless means something to its brothers, but I don't recognize anything. All I know for sure is that its armor is not that of the Angel that killed Drake. The shoulders are wrong, and the heraldry is not the anonymous white of the killer. My fire, my hate, my hunger for vengeance are cold as ashes, and refuse to rise against the wrong creature. All I feel is exhaustion as the adrenaline begins to leave my system. It stands beside the stairwell, the only exit now that the bulkhead is sealed. Its voice comes as a low growl, the snarl of its helmet-mounted vocoder hurting my ears.

"What do you know of Cypher?"

Its voice reminds me. This is the Angel that nearly killed me in the previous meeting. It's come to finish the job. To silence me, over this Cypher that I know nothing about. Perhaps Cypher is an Angel. Could that be the secret they intend to bury? My sidearm, forgotten in the madness, is in my hand, muscle memory taking over as I empty the power cell. The adrenaline of battle has left me entirely, leaving me calm, dispassionate, focused. Las-bolts harmlessly strike its faceplate in little puffs of atomized ceramite, useless little nibbles taken from its bulk. At least all of them hit its face. I can be proud of that, in the moment before I die. Its bolter is coming up. Its question is forgotten. It's decided to kill me, and I won't even-

"Oh frag, look out!"

The voice is high. Human. Female. Unaugmented. Young. A glittering silver shape bounces off a stair, and the soft hum of a magnetic clamp catches my ear. No bigger than a dinner plate, the silver disc is bulky on one side, and entirely flat on the other. As it twirls through the air, the magnetic locking mechanism on it determines that the Dark Angel's faceplate is an ideal surface to lock onto, and with a heavy clang, the device latches onto it, which had turned towards the sound of the voice. And then, after a moment of stunned silence, the Melta bomb goes off.

Everything is white. Silent. The world gradually turns a bright red, spots and vague shapes dancing as everything begins to resolve itself. There's a distant noise, slipping back into clarity as I re-orient my senses, trying to make sense of the voice I'm hearing. 

"-but it was so slippery, how do they even store those things? I mean, I was going to find a bag or something, but it beeped at me, and I was so surprised that I jumped, and it just rolled out of my hands, and oh frag he's dead isn't he? Ohhhhhh I am so gonna be executed for this, the Commissar will have to shoot me and all for just a dumb, stupid mistake! Do you think he's dead?"

I reach up, as best I can, and clamp a hand over the mouth I can barely make out. Valhallan. Young. Female. The Commissar's assistant, Jinxie. The 'cursed' one. Interesting. She's gone still, her eyes darting to her right. I look past her, at the slagged remains of the Angel. It is most certainly dead. Its head is gone, as is the top half of its chest. The molten metal and charred meat seem to have been seared shut, and there is very little blood. I find this curious, only dimly aware of the sound of Salamanders tearing through the bulkhead. The heft of their feet on the floor around me is reassuring, and I distantly recognize that I am in shock. The Salamanders are boxing me in. Barking orders. Captain Dalton is dead, his men without leadership, and the Salamanders are ordering them to take me back to our enclave.

"No."

The word startles me - even more so to realize I said it. But I dimly remember who I am. Why I am here. I have a duty. I have to see it carried out.

"We go to the meeting. We speak with the Inquisitor. We tell her what happened. And then we return to the enclave. Penlan, you will accompany us. Your testimony will be useful. Whatever happens, happens, as the Emperor wills it."

I get to my feet. Painkillers are helping with my arm. My overwhelming stubbornness takes care of the rest. When we reach the Inquisitor, she's already aware of the situation. The other Dark Angel from the meeting is there, the one with the skull helmet. It lifts a hand, an affectation of humanity. Only now do I realize that I think of the Dark Angels as 'it', while I think of a Salamander as 'he'. It is strange, but I suppose the Angels lack the Salamanders' humanity. 

"Welcome, Princeps. I am glad the unfortunate incident did not delay you overmuch." Its voice is cheerful. Upbeat. I tense as I prepare to respond, but a slight shake of the Inquisitor's head stops me. The Angel carries on. "We have gotten to the bottom of this matter. The foul Traitor Astartes who attacked your fellow Princeps was one of the Death Guard. The coating of decay on his armor appeared similar in hue to our armor. Fortunately, we are all allies here, and we in no way hold you responsible for the second, more unfortunate incident that earlier today claimed the life of Brother Meliel. Just a series of misunderstandings, and no grudges need to be held. We may correct our reports, and proceed with our campaign against the heretics."

I look to the Inquisitor. She nods, once, encouraging me to accept this fiction they have negotiated, but her eyes are weary. She hates the idea of this negotiation, but is bound by responsibility. She has to at least make an effort to hold the alliance together. She would do more, but the Angels are stubborn. They will accept no stain on their honor. It is easier for them to pretend that one of their own was killed by mistake, rather than in an attack against an ally, and in exchange, they ask that we recant our testimony against them. This lie, that will allow the Angels to save face and bury whatever they sought here, is diplomatic. It will ensure they have no need to come after me again. It will allow us to pursue our campaign against the heretics of this world once more. Would it truly be so wrong, to accept this falsehood in pursuit of greater gains?

I would ask Drake....but that is no longer an option. My voice is as cold as my anger when I reply.

"Leave this world, Dark Angel. Flee in the night like the treacherous dog you are. When I return to The Herald of Dawn, I will obliterate any Traitor I see, without hesitation or doubt. No matter the color of their armor, any Heretic will burn. Death Guard, Mortis, Dark Angels, whosoever stands against us will burn. This I swear. It would therefore be in your best interest to leave now before my weapons are powered up. I walk in service to the Emperor on His Golden Throne on Terra, not to the delusions and lies of a gene-forged beast with no honor."

I turn on my heel and walk away, the Inquisitor's expression a mix of satisfaction and resignation. She no longer needs to redact or recant her accusations, either. I have freed her from an unpleasant agreement that Politics would have forced her into. The Salamanders remain a moment longer, expressions conflicted, before they follow me. I have freed them too, in a sense. Our budding alliance gives them reason to accompany me, and the clear statement of intent ensures that the Angels know what's at stake. Penlan stays with the Inquisitor. She will be returned to the Commissar, safe and whole. The ragged remains of my honor guard form up around me, willing to sell their lives to keep the Dawn walking. Foolish, really. With only two engines left, the smart move would be to wait for Adamantus to send another maniple, but that could take months. Years. Dawn and I are needed, as is Old Man Stahl and the Silver Hound. Whether we are enough is irrelevant.

I feel Dawn's mind on my own as I return, building as I approach. Pride. Rage. She approves of my words. I have staked a claim on this world, and on the enemies we hunt. Should the Angels wish to contest it, they will die like any other foe. The anticipation for battle fills my mind like a war drum. Dawn is eager for my return, and I am eager for her embrace. We are, after all, two halves of a whole being. The petty human concerns are fading, replaced with a primal need to fight. However, a single clear thought remains in my mind: I should have sent Vris to this meeting in my stead.

Damn, do I hate meetings.


	9. Chapter 9

***ENGINE KILL!***

The burn of the Plasma Annihilator is irrelevant, negligible, a distraction I can put aside. The Mortis walker staggers back, without control from the slagged command deck, and it falls backwards into the Titan at its side. A cascade of falling shields leaves the second engine vulnerable, and my Volcano Cannon voices our fury. The reactor cracks, and both Mortis Titans vanish in nuclear fire. 

***ENGINE KILL!***

The third Titan is withdrawing, but it has nowhere to go. The tanks of the 88th Jouran Dragoons are already coming around the far side, their massed lascannons burning through the knee joints of the Traitor Titan. It's a Reaver, the infamous Hand of Ruin, and it would mark an excellent kill for Adamantus - but my void shields are still coming back online, and my weapons systems are running too hot. Trying to engage it now would be a risky proposition - and the honor the Jourans will rack up with such a prestigious kill is theirs anyways.

"We got it! It's going down!"

The Titan topples, screeching its hate into the skies, and a cheer goes up from the massed infantry and armored forces. I cycle the coolant systems, trying to keep my weapons ready, and trust in Stahl to watch my back. He's old for a Princeps, pushing seventy and heavily augmented, but he's reliable and level-headed. Content to serve in my Maniple, rather than desiring one of his own, Stahl is probably the best backup I could ever have asked for....with the possible exception of Drake. Damn, that wound is still fresh. I can't let it shake me.

"Princeps, additional contacts four kilometers away. They are stationary. Readings suggest a Warlord among their number. I'm reading two additional Titans, Warhound-class or equivalent, and what might be a bunker. Readings are still rough, but it might be Manus Mortis."

Stahl's scans are usually reliable. A Warlord. The forces of Mortis here only have one Warlord left, Manus Mortis, and only one Reaver, likely the Myrmidon Rex. Records are incomplete, and some of the enemy Titans have been destroyed too thoroughly for proper identification, but the enemy machine earned some infamy with its Power Claw in more recent centuries. It's another priority target, but by necessity, it is still secondary to the Manus Mortis. I must weigh my options carefully.

Ten Titans of Legio Mortis remain. One Warlord, Manus Mortis, a match for Stahl and a significant threat to Dawn. One Reaver, which alone would be a potential threat to Stahl and a minor hazard to Dawn. Eight other walkers have been confirmed, two separate teams of four Warhounds each. They've been harassing other Imperial forces, but they're closing on us now. A combined assault by all eight might be too much for us - and we wouldn't survive a fight against ten at once. 

***Stahl. Move to these coordinates. Intercept the second Warhound pack. Destroy if possible, but otherwise delay them. I will strike at the first pack as they attempt to return to the others. We will cripple their support, and then take the fight to Mortis' remaining Titans.***

I get a terse confirmation from him. I understand. He's not comfortable operating alone, but the discomfort is misplaced. Stahl Imdris is a damned fine Princeps, and a pack of four Warhounds will pose no threat to him. Regardless, I know his tyle. He'll attack viciously at first, destroying the leading pair, and forcing the other two to take cover. He'll pin them down while waiting for me to return. He's not timid, exactly, but he is more passive than the commander of a Maniple must be. Fortunately, he has me.

Dawn and I power forwards, taking a diagonal path to overlook the enemy Warhounds I am after. I can detect them easily enough, a pack of jackals seeking to ambush a sleeping bear. They're approaching the Jouran flank, and obviously plan to take them unawares. I almost smile as I watch their positions. Their auspex arrays are smaller than ours, less powerful. We could obliterate any two of them before they even realize we're here, but that would allow two of them to react. That's why I lie in ambush. Shields low, weapons low, all systems cycling at far below advised levels. They'll pass right by our position without even realizing we're here, coming within two hundred meters of us on their approach. It's all I can do to keep Dawn's fiery heart from blazing into life. They are coming.

The first pair pass by, keeping their auspex pings low-powered. They're trying to employ stealth, unaware that their plan is flawed from the start. I study these foes, while I have the opportunity. Their metal is glossy and slick, plates of organic, chitinous armor grown over their more vulnerable areas. The decay they leave in their wake is almost a tangible thing. I feel like I can smell the blood and rot dripping from their demon-addled carapaces. Their clawed feet sport talons, barbed and spiked to enjoy the sensation of treadig upon their enemies. I can barely contain Dawn's rage, as my own threatens to rear. 

Can these fallen creatures be considered Titans anymore? I hear the mournful howl of one as it staggers past, the purity of its cadence marred with viral scrap-code and corrupt beyond the ministrations of any Tech-priest. It is so warped and twisted with demonic influence that it's barely a machine at all. Its reactor is tinged with something strange, a Warp-spawned energy signature that has fused the metal to demonic flesh. Inside the command bridge, I know, these Titans are an unholy melding of flesh and steel, the Princeps and command crew long since assimilated by the vile creature that now commands this Titan. I can almost make out the name across the plating, faded and pitted and overgrown with tendrils of unnatural flesh. Whatever it once was, I will honor the spirit it once carried with total annihilation.

The third and fourth machines follow, cautious, careful. They're suspicious, expecting some sort of trap to be sprung. They're holding back so that, when the trap springs, the first two Warhounds will be consumed, giving them a chance to respond. They're right to be suspicious. They're wrong to assume the attack will come from ahead. It is time.

The Gatling Blaster affixed to the left side of Dawn, below the arm-mounted Quake Cannon, pins rapidly to life. The first shots are out before the enemy Titans are even aware that they're under fire. The first one buckles, reactor detonating before it can even cry out, and the force of its blast staggers the second - even as I stitch a line of impacts up its spine. The reactor and command bridge detonate as one, the damned beast collapsing with a strangled cry. As it does, the first pair of Warhounds are turning to face us. Bolder and more eager to fight, they lack the sense to flee. They will not survive to regret this mistake.

***ENGINE KILL.***

Our void shields crackle, raising in rapid sequence seconds before the enemy Titans open fire. Their fire is primarily heavy autocannons, meant to shred tanks and soldiers, but ineffective against a Titan's shields. I almost pity their arrogance. However, the feeling passes as quickly as it is spawned. The Hellstorm cannon below my right arm hums to life, acquiring targets and prioritizing them in short order. I give the mental order to fire, even as Vris informs the Weapons System Moderatii of what's happening. 

There's the faintest draw on my Void Shields as the weapon spits its rage, crimson bolts thicker than a man spearing the Traitor Titans mercilessly. Their own shields were low, to avoid detection, and in their excitement to engage their attacker, they didn't bother to raise them to any significant degree. This was foolish. Their shield crumple under a single salvo, the pair of machines exploding in rapid succession. I am not as excited as I would once have been. I am weary. I miss my fellow Princeps. If this is what it is to command a Titan Maniple, I would just as soon never do it again.

***ENGINE KILL.***

Dawn does not share my exhaustion. Her heart burns with her jubilation, and threatens to bring a smile to my face. I'm so off-balance that I don't notice the incoming projectiles until almost too late. My void shields catch the first three as I stagger aside, Dawn's balance shaken but unbroken, the impacts tearing away far more Void Shielding than simple missiles should account for. They must be more powerful than expected - or they are tipped with anti-Titan warheads. The thought is disturbing to me. The rest of the salvo nearly misses me, and impact along the stone ridges behind me. The first three register as Melta warheads, their thermal impacts turning the stone molten and tearing it away. If I hadn't been looking for them, I wouldn't have even noticed the final two missiles, tiny and quick, slashing through where I would have been if I had tried to withstand the melta-missile barrage. They slice past me, close enough to swat from the air with one weapon armature if I were so foolish to do so, and carry past me. One slips through the hole in the rock outcropping, drifting off into the distance, but it doesn't concern me. My attention is diverted by the one that strikes the half-melted stone.

They say that Vortex missiles are too complicated, too dangerous, to regularly field for armies. That could well be the case. I certainly haven't seen very many of them in my fights. But I know enough about them to recognize one when I see it. The ridge of stone vanishes within the sudden sphere of absolute darkness, far too close for my liking, a hole in Reality itself that greedily devours anything too close. But that's not the true horror. I get a glimpse of the hole itself, the Warp bleeding free into realspace, a realm of dreams and nightmares, impossible pleasures and unspeakable agonies, ever-shifting fates and oceans of blood. It is only for an instant, but the damage is bad enough. Blood drops from my nose and eyes. One of my Moderatii simply keels over, dead before he strikes the ground, brain liquefied by the horrors of the Warp. Dawn shields my mind with her own as best she can, a lifeline for me to hold onto so I may retain my sanity.

And just as quickly as it began, it has ended. The chronometers disagree about how long the hole lasted - the first indicating only a few seconds, the second suggesting four hours, and the third insisting that sixteen thousand years have passed. Shaking myself free of the result, I try to trace where the missiles came from. There's a distant signal, a small aircraft turning and fleeing retaliation. I will not allow this. My Volcano Cannon hums, my aim guided by instinct and Dawn's expertise, legs locking in place to ensure a solid shot. Despite the aim, the shot strikes the craft, the explosion tiny and insignificant. Whoever they were, they nearly killed me - but more important, they nearly destroyed Dawn. I will not forget this.

I check on Stahl's position, noting that my estimation was off. He has defeated his enemies, but his auspex array has detected a substantial push of Traitor forces towards the Jourans. Leading their charge are two Titan signatures, a Reaver and a Warlord. Myrmidon Rex and Manus Mortis. Accompanying them is the last of the Traitor Astartes forces, Death Guard in tanks and transports, as well as cultists and other hangers-on. They do not concern me - only the Titans do. Legio Mortis will be crushed, their Titans purged in flame and plasma. Stahl and I are approaching from opposite directions, and my vox array crackles into life. 

"My Princeps, I will strike first and draw their attention. You may take advantage of their distraction to strike them down."

Stahl has more of a spine than I expected. The Silver Hound has a Volcano Cannon of its own, and hefty Void Shields, but a Warlord Titan will still be more than a match for him.

***Negative, Stahl. Engage the Myrmidon Rex. Manus Mortis is mine.***

He cannot disobey a direct order, but I can feel his displeasure with it. He is positioning himself, even as I approach the enemy force. No pretense of stealth is made. I have no need for it. The Traitors will see me, and despair, knowing that I cannot be stopped. They will watch their doom chase them down, and their cowardly hearts will suffer greatly before I even fire a shot. My mercy will be their deaths. I can feel them through Dawn's auspex, my mind dangerously intertwined with hers. I risk losing myself - but that, too, no longer worries me. We have a duty.

"Princeps, Myrmidon Rex is engaging me. Manus Mortis turning towards you. Fight well, my Princeps, and I will see you when the dust settles."

***And I you, Stahl. Fight well, The Emperor has His eyes upon us today.***

I detect the signals from Manus Mortis now. It's angling to intercept me, launching missiles to cut me off. But I have tricks up my sleeve yet. A volley of shots from my Hellstorm Cannon strikes many of the missiles from the air, and I intend to simply deflect the rest with my shields - but the blasts are too large. Plasma warheads. Attempting to shrug these off would be bad. 

***Vris. Missiles on target. Six rounds of six each.***

Vris affirms, and my own missiles launch, coming down where I know the Manus Mortis to be. These are the opening steps of the dance between two great Titans, much akin to the opening round of the bare-knuckled brawling sports enjoyed in the underhives. Two slabs of muscle jabbing and testing defenses, feinting and poking and trying to get a feel for one another before they close the distance and begin unleashing their more punishing blows. I feel a strange kinship with them now, as I close the gap myself. 

Heavy bolts of las-fire glance off my Void Shields, but I'm already slipping aside to my right, taking glancing blows and avoiding others altogether, though I am not yet firing. I need to time it perfectly, so that my missiles and direct fire will stroke in concert. Right about.....now!

Death spews from my carapace-mounted weaponry, a torrent of las-fire and solid shot. My automatic weaponry won't do much to the Titan itself, but repeated strike against its void shields are more difficult to recover from. It slips aside, but I know that trick as well, and keep most of my fire on target, just as the barrage of missiles rain down, stripping more shields in the process. It's almost time for my heavy weapons, but not quite. I reverse and pull left abruptly, sensing more than detecting the counter-strike, and the burst of plasma fire slashes through where I would have been if I had remained on course. Dawn may be a massive Titan, but she's as nimble as a fox when she chooses to be. I eye the countdown estimate for a firing solution that will pierce the remaining shields. It's two seconds off. I'll need Vris to have it calibrated. 

As the chronometer touches two, I'm already locked and primed, the plasma annihilator charged up to full. The enemy Titan lets out a blurt of hellish scrap-code, rage and terror mixed as one, only to be drowned out by the searing fury of my weapon discharging. I burn through the command decks with ease, shields stripped away in the blink of an eye as I pour my righteous hate upon this enemy of Adamantus. For nearly six seconds, a torrent of searing plasma engulfs the enemy machine, burning and melting and purifying all at once with the Emperor's own flame. When the reactor goes critical, I don't even register its death behind the glow of my own satisfaction. That's probably why I'm so surprised when Dawn's left leg buckles, dropping us to one knee. I'm too caught up in the celebration.

***ENGINE KILL!***

The damage is not severe, but it needs to be addressed now. Immediately. The mechanics and Salamanders aboard Darn are already moving to repair damaged systems and patch any damage that made it through her shields. There is, however, one further thing for me to do. 

I check the auspex for Stahl's location, checking his transponder signal alongside any additional data. He's on the far side of a rocky outcrop, and from the looks of things, he's on even footing with the enemy engine. If only he could....

***Stahl. Push the enemy engine back twenty meters, by any means necessary, and I can take the shot.***

There's not even a verification of my order as Stahl and the Hound charge into the Traitor Titan, shoving it back with sheer muscle alone. Their weapons steam and smoke, significant damage to both Titans' weapons systems. I note with pride that the Myrmidon Rex's power claw has been sheared off at the wrist, melted away by Stahl's Volcano Cannon if the warped metal is any indication. They're both battered and dented, reminding me yet again of underhive boxers, but there's one crucial difference. After all, if one boxer had the option to simply back away while an ally with a shotcannon murdered their opponent, that would be rather different. Or maybe that's how it works. It would certainly be more efficient.

***Disengage!***

Stahl obeys immediately, leaving the Chaos Titan standing before me. Its weapon arms twitch, but there's no response. Its shields are stripped away, unarmed and unprotected, and even on one knee, Dawn still towers over it. My left weapon arm locks onto its reactor, a Quake Cannon more than enough to send its howling demonic soul back to Hell. For its part, it locks its legs and stands tall. Proud. It will not beg for mercy, nor will I give it any. We stay frozen for a suspended instant. It stares down the barrel of the weapon that will kill it. I stare at the final Mortis machine on this world. With a sigh of relief, I fire, the Exterminatus-scarred shell detonating the final foe's reactor in a heartbeat. 

***ENGINE KILL.***

My duty here is not done, but I disengage myself from the command throne, telling Vris she has command. I walk to the reactor, ignoring the concerned looks from the Salamanders. I need to commune with the only person left in my life that matters to me. I sit with my back against the reactor's shielding, dimly aware that I desperately need a shower and a meal. Later.

***AFTER***

That's right. After we commune. Dawn's voice is stern. She knows I should rest. I allow my eyes to close. It has been six days since I slept any significant amount, allowing my Moderatii to take shifts and allowing Stahl time to sleep each night. I have stayed vigilant, but now it is my turn to rest. Dawn and I will comfort one another while the onboard Mechanicus acolytes see to her leg. Stahl will watch over us both. I wipe away the blood from my nose. Again? I am so tired of this infirmity. Actually, I'm just tired in general. No harm will come from a few hours of sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**AFTER ACTION REPORT**  
Subject: Astartes and Adamantus  
Filed by: Inquisitor Amberly Vail

I have already filed several reports, but this final report is a collection of information not already covered. For details regarding the Necron artifact, the Chaos ritualists, and the budding Ork presence, please see my previous reports. I do feel it is my duty to record here the salient information, for future reference.

First of all, the matter of the Astartes. As fellow Inquisition agents should appreciate, the Dark Angels are more dangerous than they would have us believe. Their willingness to kill not only myself, but crucial Legio Adamantus forces, shows a dangerously undisciplined mindset. If they are more loyal to their secrets than they are to the Emperor, they may be walking heretical paths. I do feel that we should keep a closer eye on them - though I know that is unlikely to happen anytime soon. If it were not for Princeps Vandine, their wrongdoing would be much easier to bury, but I suppose I have their disagreement to thank.

Speaking of Vandine, her actions will have serious consequences. She called them out, and though I have little proof, I suspect the attempted ambush on her with Vortex weaponry was at the hands of a Dark Angels gunship. However, Lord General Zyvan has seen fit to award her the Honourifica Imperialis, and once I had a little chat with her, she reluctantly agreed to accept it. Her Honor Guard of Salamanders were, in turn, given their own awards, courtesy of the Legio Adamantus, and they seem to be forging a solid relationship.

Afterwards, however, something strange occurred, that I feel is important to report on. Another Astartes, in archaic power armor of grey and black, approached Princeps Vandine. They had a hushed conversation, once she had asked the Salamanders to swear to secrecy, and shortly after, the Marine left. His pauldron bore the heraldry of a carnivorous fish of some sort, though I didn't recognize it, and he didn't say a word or make a sound beyond speaking to her. When asked what it was about - even when I subtly invoked my Inquisitorial authority - she simply smiled and told me it was "A matter of honor and favors owed." 

We'll need to be observant in the future. The Dark Angels may be a threat to Imperial activities in the future. The Salamanders could be more open to alliances than we thought. This unknown Chapter is an unknown variable to be studied further. And Princeps Vandine herself is, while less subtle than I would like, nevertheless gaining popularity. It is rare that Imperial Guard regiments become close to the Titan Legions they fight beside, but I'm told that the Jourans and Savlar Chem-Dogs are calling her "The Iron Maiden" and "The Heavy Metal Queen," respectively. Their commanding officers have, shockingly, requested to fight alongside Adamantus in the future. 

I learned the hard way to be cautious of anything that changes this much, this fast. I'll keep my eye on this situation, and am requesting another Inquisitorial agent be assigned for closer monitoring of Vandine. I advise a woman, ideally young, posing as a personal aide. Vandine won't refuse an aide, but she'll also give her little to do, allowing the agent to gather information and establish herself. 

As always, I'll follow up on the remaining issues when I have answers.  
-Vail


End file.
